


Long Way Home

by SunnyD_lite



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Between Bargaining and After Life, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-27
Updated: 2009-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-07 17:07:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/67241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunnyD_lite/pseuds/SunnyD_lite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York was his second lay-over, several hours spent cooling his heels with overpriced coffee.  All because he had not answered when called.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Way Home

**Author's Note:**

> TamingtheMuse Prompt: Jet lag  
> Disclaimer: Joss said go play. I playth.

"Coffee?"

The steel trolley banged its way up the aisle towards the curtains of the forbidden business class section. No need to wonder if he was in good odour with the Council. When he'd first come to Sunnydale, he'd flown first class. Rupert mentally debated the wisdom of using his last American dollars on a pitifully small bottle of scotch, which brought to mind evenings grieving with a melancholy vampire. Plus, flights rarely had single malts, not in economy. "Tea, please." He might as well embrace the trappings of his homeland. Trying to repatriate himself, one habit at a time.

A small white plastic cup, to be held by the odd brown contraption provided with the meal was thrust in front of him. "Cream, milk, sugar?" were offered in a tone bright and brittle enough to pierce through even his malaise. He took a quick glanced at the tinged liquid purporting to be tea and responded "two creams" hoping that might disguise the dishwater he'd been served. A quick sniff confirmed that it was not PG Tips, the best he could have hoped for –Darjeeling or Earl Gray too elusive to even contemplate. Not that he'd expected even proper steeping, but—

Every Watcher knew it was but a temporary assignment, even those working with potentials left if their girl wasn't called by age seventeen.

As he peeled back the foil on the tub of cream the plane jolted and splashed the thick liquid over his tie. At his first lay-over he'd pulled on the uniform, needed that shielding despite its discomfort. With a sigh, he contorted himself to reach for his handkerchief in his blazer pocket on the chair beside him. Realizing his seatmate's over-sized purse, which, to his self-mortification, he could identify as the 'it bag' from two years ago, was resting on it, he opted for the alcohol square – didn't they used to come in lemon scent- and hoped it would do no damage to the silk.

He'd need to change again before being dragged out to the Council's local. It was a tradition to get the returning hero, heroic in the eyes of untested Watchers anyway, reacquainted with the rhythm of a life without apocalypses or midnight patrols. He could hear the clichés now: "A jolly good run there!" "Heard she was a bit of a handful, but the world's still here so she must have got the job done." Meaningless, yet hurtful comments from those who should, yet couldn't, know better. His brush with Eyghon had removed that innocence from him long ago. How could a pint, or a gallon, of London's Pride possible fill the pit inside of him? The comforting numb of shock had long faded, as had the sharp edges of guilt and grief. It was a deep wound barely scabbed over in the months he'd delayed in order to take care of the rest of his family. His hand strayed to his pants' pocket, where the rubber pencil topper rested. They were ready to move on.   
He didn't think he ever would be.

Shaking himself from his reverie, he opened a second cream and poured it into the cooling liquid. He watched the white bloom form on the surface and suddenly all he could see was the sky rent and boiling over. He sucked in a breath hoping the scabbing would hold. In response to the noise, his seat mate barely turned from where her head rested against a pillow pushed against the window dimple. She plunked herself down in New York and after a few minutes of attempting conversation, shrugged and scattered her belongings around her.

All his belongings were now properly boxed up; ready to be shipped wherever he landed. If he landed. The plane dropped again as the seatbelt sign flashed on. The liquid masquerading as tea sloshed out of its confines and made its escape across the plastic tray. An escape as poorly thought out as fleeing to the desert in a Winnebago. Nothing stayed where it belonged. Packing meant making decisions, trying to recall which texts he'd been naive enough to expense, and thus made Council property, and which formed his own private library. Codices, tomes, grimoires. Half a lifetimes worth of studies, and five years of applied studies. If some of the books were now stained with jelly or frapachinos, it was only fitting that they show the marks of the battles fought. Battles he himself recorded. He knew his duty but the thought of others reading, judging, his Slayer --if his Watcher diaries accidentally got forwarded to his house in Bath, well he could always return them to the Council at a later date.

It wasn't like they were showing him any respect. New York was his second lay-over, several hours spent cooling his heels with overpriced coffee. All because he had not answered when called, the Council was eternal, they could wait. His grieving children needed him a damn sight more than the pencil pushers required an in person report. He needed the children more than watching his performance be dissected and found wanting, again.

However, in the five years immersed in the passion of both his charge and the very real threat of the end of the world, he had forgotten the pettiness of those who only read about mystic crisis. They had ensured his trip was as bothersome as they could arrange. Absently he picked up his cup and sipped the tepid concoction. He could brush off their unstated taunts, a few weeks at most and then he would join the ranks of those who faded away, eluding the barbed tangles of active Council business.

He wasn't sure what he would do with his time. No Dawn to tutor. No patrols to oversee. He very much doubted any vampires would bang on his door demanding 'the good stuff, behind the Collective works of Billy, none of that gut rot in the liquor cabinet, yeah?'. He could retire the tweed to the back of his closet. Could take up his contacts again. After one last command performance, the uniform, armour if he was to be truthful, would be no longer needed.

Her death had stripped him of everything.

It was time to invent himself anew. And, now that he was certain his family was settled, he could take the opportunity to do so. He chuckled, probably a bit late to try for a fighter pilot, and he'd already been or, he supposed he still was, a shop keep. The wound was still there, but it was no longer seeping. He may not wish too, but he would live. And, for her sake, he would live well.

 

Arriving at Heathrow he tugged his cases off the carousel and looked around for a driver. Surely they would do him that honour? He blinked his eyes hard, trying to force them open. While he knew what time it was, his body still objected to traveling east, without taking the various legs into account. As much as he wished it, he knew better than to give in to its desire for a nap. No, best to fight through it; realign himself to his new place in the world. Really of all the battles he'd faced, mere fatigue didn't even register.

He heard a ringing, and for a moment wondered if his ears were still plugged from the change in pressure. The only people who had that cell number were back in Sunnydale, where it was early morning. Scrambling, he found the device and answered.

A voice, full of pride and joy, babbled at him, recounting the impossible. Although this group had always redefined that term. Surrounded by the hubbub of Heathrow's travelers, he stood in a circle of preternatural calm, focusing mostly on locking his knees so he would not crumble. All his musings and meditations on his new place in the world were for naught. No jet lag could compare to this emotional whiplash.

His Slayer was alive.


End file.
